Come to Me, Angel of Music
by princessbelle212
Summary: AU. The year is 1890. A boy arrives at the Paris Opera to begin a life as a performer there. But a performer's life is never easy, especially when there is a ghost wandering the halls. Based on Phantom of the Opera  book and musical . Style/K2. First fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Thought it was high time to publish a story. This is AU based off of Phantom of the Opera (a weird conglomeration of the Leroux novel and Webber's musical). This is my first fanfic, so please let me know what you think. I try quite hard to make sure the spelling and grammar is correct, so tell me if I did something wrong. I also highly value characters being in character, so I apologize that I can't always hold true to that in this story. I had to do some altering to make the characters fit the storyline. There will be boy/boy in this because with South Park the Christine character had to be a boy. Pairings are Style, K2, Candy, and there may be smaller instances of other pairings as well. **

**Don't own South Park or Phantom of the Opera **

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An early morning mist drifted through the streets of Paris, swirling around the wheels of a lonely coach as it clattered down the cobbled Rue de Lyon. The curtains were drawn, blocking the inhabitant from the outside world. The driver sat hunched against the cold as she drove to her destination.

Inside the coach sat a young boy of perhaps seventeen. He sat quietly, hands folded in his lap, head bowed. He was clothed in a black suit that fit his form well, but was neither glamorous nor ostentatious. He stared unblinkingly at his folded hands, his lips drawn tightly together in a stoic expression. His green eyes glittered even in the dim light, for in them hung unshed tears.

At the boy's feet lay a single suitcase containing all the boy's worldly possessions, and placed carefully on the seat opposite was a rather old and battered violin case. It was clear that this instrument was greatly cherished by the boy, for every time the coach jolted, he would glance up and check that the instrument remained secure.

The coach pulled to a stop in front of the regal façade of the Opera Populaire, its front steps already crowded with opera patrons anxious to purchase tickets for the evening's show. A large banner hung from the front of the building, advertising the opening night of _Fidelio_, with a picture of a fat brunet tenor gesticulating wildly, his bulk taking up most of the space, and a willowy, black haired soprano looking slightly testy at her place squeezed in the back corner.

The boy twitched back the curtain of the coach and stared out, his green eyes wide and curious. The coach-woman hopped down from her seat and opened the door.

"Stay here. I will tell them you have arrived. And SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!" She glared at him angrily, the bird perched in her hair fluttering its wings as it fought for balance.

The boy watched her disappear into the building. He sighed and leaned back. He in no way wanted to be here, in this city, and much less in the Opera house. Opera always reminded him of his father. He just wanted to go back to Sweden, with his stepmother and her new husband. But it had been his father's wish that he train to sing and dance in the opera, so he had been sent off to the Paris Conservatory when he was just fourteen. Now, with his schooling complete and his father dead, the only place left for him to go was the Opera.

Ever since he was a child, his father had sparked his imagination with stories of an Angel of Music, who would descend to earth and train those with a spiritual connection to music. His childhood dream had been to sing in one of the great opera houses and receive a visit from the Angel. Now, however, that he was as close as he had ever been to achieving this dream, he felt merely despondent and apathetic. Music had lost its beauty when news of his father's death had reached him at the Paris Conservatory, and singing lost all the joy that it held. He began focusing instead on improving his dancing, and quickly became one of the better male dancers at the school.

A month previously, his teachers had decided that since he wasn't going to sing, they had taught him all they could, and he would benefit from real performance experience. They wrote a letter to Mme Henrietta, the dance mistress at the opera, and now, a month later, he was sent to join the ballet corps.

The coach-woman descended the steps, followed by a tall, quite plump woman dressed all in black and smoking a cigarette. The boy assumed this was Mme Henrietta, as she had the austere bun and rigid posture of ballet instructors anywhere. Even though it was clear from her size that she no longer danced as she once did, she cut an imposing figure. The patrons cleared a path for her as she glided down the front steps.

She approached the coach and rapped firmly on the door.

"Come out, boy. I must look at you."

The boy unfolded his legs and pushed the door open, jumping out gracefully. He straightened, drawing himself up to his full height of 5'7," and stared passively at Mme Henrietta.

"Hmm," she said, "a bit on the short side, but strong and graceful. If only your face wasn't so closed off, boy, you could be a great dancer. Now tell me, what got you into this noble art?"

The boy stared at her, unsure of what to say.

"Er… my father wanted…" he muttered.

"Ah yes, your father: the late, great violinist, Gerald Broflovski? He always did so love the opera. Tell me then, boy, why are you not singing to honor his memory? I do seem to remember him talking of his son who so loved to sing"

"I-" he choked off, feeling his eyes start to sting. He rifled through his pockets and drew out a slightly rumpled note from the dean of the Conservatory and handed it to Mme Henrietta.

"Ah," she said, "it appears that the dean wishes you to sing in the chorus of the opera when dance isn't required. That will be arranged, but it is expected that you focus on your dance."

"That shouldn't be a problem," the boy muttered.

He turned and retrieved his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and carefully removed the violin case from its place on the seat of the coach. Mme Henrietta took a drag of her cigarette, gave him one last look up and down, before turning and sweeping back up the stairs to the opera house.

The boy hurried to catch up to her, and heard her mutter "conformist pigs" under her breath as they passed some businessmen waiting in line for tickets before their work day started.

As the boy entered the opera house, he supposed he should have been impressed with the grandeur of the foyer. The smooth marble floor and soaring staircase with filigreed banisters and gilded statues lining the walls created a sense of great wealth and sophistication, but he felt nothing but bleak sadness, as memories of the first time he had entered this building crashed into his head.

He had been seven years old, and his father had dressed him in an uncomfortable suit, explaining the importance of elegance in a place like the Opera Populaire. They had been in Paris while his father was being featured with the Paris Symphony playing Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D, and were using his evenings off to explore the other arts the city offered. The boy had felt overwhelmed as they had entered the opera house, with the scent of ladies perfume and the rustle of silks and the hushed, excited chatter permeating the building. He recalled sitting in awe as a tenor playing a prince moved the audience to tears as he proclaimed his love for his newfound princess. At that instant a desire and a passion for opera performance sparked into existence in his soul. As he expressed his new love to his father as they exited the theater, he saw his father's eyes light up with such pride in his son, which had deepened his resolve further to become a great opera star.

Of course, everything had changed when he was fifteen and learned of his father's death. He could no longer bring himself to sing without seeing visions of his father's smiling face as they practiced together. The boy knew his voice was rough and out of practice from the two years he had refused to use it, but the professors at the Conservatory remembered, and hoped that placing him in the chorus would help his voice blossom again.

The boy followed Mme Henrietta backstage, to the vast halls that wound through the opera house. The contrast between the areas where the audience wandered and where the performers lived was distinct. The halls were crowded with people hurrying to rehearsals, and filled with the sounds of singers warming up their voices, and the chatter of the stagehands. Lint and sawdust lingered in the air from the set construction and the costuming that was being frantically touched up in the last hours before performance.

They walked until they reached a cramped hallway full of small dormitory rooms. Mme Henrietta showed the boy to a room on the corner. It was cramped, and contained nothing but a bed, dresser, and full-length mirror.

"The rooms for the ballet company are small, but your rent has been covered by your father's estate. I want you to practice your positions in the mirror for one hour each morning before attending rehearsal, which will start at eight o'clock in the morning precisely. You will eat only lean meat and fish, and whole grain and fruits and vegetables. We don't want you gaining any weight, but you mustn't lose that muscle tone either. You will also have chorus rehearsal this afternoon beginning at one p.m. in preparation for the upcoming production of _Nabucco._ It is too late to include you in _Fidelio_, I am afraid, but we will get you on the stage quite soon. Attend the opening performance tonight, and spend the rest of your time finding your way around the Opera. It can be quite a confusing place for one who does not know it. I have asked one of the other dancers to show you around before his rehearsal begins."

She swept out of the room, leaving the boy alone. He looked more intently around the small space that was now his own. The mirror created the illusion of more space than there actually was. He set his bag on the bed and placed the violin case on the top of the dresser. A light knocking came from the door frame and he turned around to see a smallish blond boy of a similar age standing and smiling sheepishly at him.

"Hiya there! You m-must be the new boy. Mme Henrietta has been anxious for another boy to join the ballet. She says I can't keep dancing all the male roles or the audience will g-get tired of seeing me. M-my name's Leopold, by the way, but everyone calls me Butters."

Butters stood nervously bumping his knuckles together as he waited for an answer.

"Hello, Butters. I'm Kyle." Kyle smiled faintly at the nervous boy and felt an instant liking for him. He had an air of vague innocence that Kyle found endearing.

"Nice to meet you, Kyle! Let me just show you around."

Butters set off down the hallway, Kyle trailing behind him.

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**A/N I love Henrietta, she is one of my favorite characters. The idea of her as a mistress of ballet was just too funny to me to pass up. Therefore, she will be slightly OOC, but I will try to make her as non-conformist as possible.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! You guys make continuing much easier. I am not sure how much I like this chapter, so let me know what you think of it as compared to chapter one. I am on spring break now, so chapter three should be up in a few days.**

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Kyle awoke after his first night at the opera and stared around the unfamiliar space. The large mirror that dominated his room caught his eye, the glass dark and deep, as if the space behind the mirror extended into eternity.

He was staring, entranced, at the odd illusion created by the mirror, when a series of taps on his door broke his attention.

"Kyle, it's time to go!" came Butter's hushed voice from the other side. "You don't want to be late on your first day."

Kyle climbed out of bed and rustled around in his bag for some clothes. He raked his fingers through his unruly hair and opened the door to the dimly lit hallway.

Butters smiled at him in greeting, and as they walked chattered about the day-to-day workings of the opera, stopping to introduce Kyle to various workers as people made their way to breakfast.

Kyle's ballet rehearsal in the morning went quite smoothly. Madame Henrietta seemed impressed with his movements, and he was paired with another young ballerina to practice lifting.

The ballet girls were a silly bunch, giggling when Kyle glanced their way. He tried to ignore their eyes and focus on his choreography. He wanted to talk more with Butters about life at the opera, but the rigid discipline of the ballet studio forbade any talk during rehearsal hours.

After his rather successful day of dance, Kyle was not looking forward to his first choir rehearsal. He dreaded being forced to sing again. He knew he was out of practice, and singing only brought back painful memories. He entered the choir room, a high-ceilinged area with rises in the floor, where the rest of the chorus was standing already. Kyle walked up to the choir master, an extremely thin man with an abnormally large head.

"Ah, you must be the young Mr Broflovski, the one the conservatory so raved about, m'kay? We are practicing the chorus for the Hebrew Slaves from the great work _Nabucco_ by Verdi. Please take your music and go stand with the tenors."

As Kyle moved, he felt the eyes of the other choristers following him. Being rather short compared to many of the other tenors, he stood awkwardly in the front row and tried to ignore the curious glances from the other singers.

The music swelled up, and the choir began to sing.

_Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate…_

The music swirled around Kyle. His eyes stung as he remembered the first time he performed this song. He had been ten years old, and in the youth choir at his synagogue. They had performed the chorus as a special treat before one of the services. Kyle remembered his father sitting in the front row, a look of immense pride and joy on his face.

As the music swelled up, Kyle's throat started to close with emotion, and his voice cracked embarrassingly loudly.

The choirmaster tapped his conducting baton on his music stand and halted the choir.

"M'kay, who decided it would be a good idea to attend choir rehearsal without warming up first?" the choirmaster asked.

The heads around Kyle turned towards him accusingly. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

"M'kay, Mr Broflovski, come to the front of the choir and provide an example of some appropriate warm-ups."

Kyle tried hard to hold his head high as he walked slowly in front of the choir, cheeks still flaming from embarrassment.

He approached the choirmaster's platform and cleared his throat roughly.

"I, uh, I'm not sure what to do," he muttered, glancing down at the floor.

"Just sing ascending scales on la, m'kay."

Kyle cleared his throat and started to sing, his vocal chords protesting their lack of use as he approached the higher register. He could feel his vibrato wavering, the tone a pale shadow compared to the sounds he had made when he was still practicing. As he got to the top of his range, his voice broke again, and he stopped abruptly, shame washing over him.

"M'kay, Mr Broflovski, it is clear to me that you are terribly out of practice. I cannot have you singing in my choir until you decide that exercising your vocal muscles daily is a good habit to form. Your tone is rusty and not pleasant. Good day to you."

Kyle stared for a few moments, then turned and walked out of the room and into the dusty hallway.

The eyes of the choir followed him as he left, but not one of the singers noticed the additional pair of eyes watching the boy from the rafters.

Kyle climbed up the narrow stairs to his dormitory hallway, feeling unbearable sadness close over him. His father had been the one who inspired his voice, and without his guidance Kyle did not think he could ever regain the voice he'd once had. He liked dancing well enough, but it didn't hold for him the spark of passion, of life, that singing once had held. Kyle desperately wanted to be able to feel the soaring sensation he got from letting his voice ring out above an audience that he had once striven for so strongly, but he had lost his driving force.

He entered his room and collapsed on his bed, weariness mingling with sadness. He closed his eyes and prepared to let the blissful emptiness of sleep consume him.

"Child, attend."

Kyle leaped up, muffling a scream of surprise behind his hand. He looked around his room wildly, but found it empty.

"Who- who's there?" he asked, his voice a frightened whisper. He waited, half-convinced he had imagined the sound, when he heard the distant strain of a violin, and then an angelic voice singing in a lush baritone.

_Vision fugitive et toujours poursuivie _

_Ange mystérieux qui prend toute ma vie... _

_Ah! c'est toi! que je veux voir _

_Ô mon amour! ô mon espoir! _

_Vision fugitive! c'est toi!_

Kyle stared around his room in amazement, letting the rich sound wash over him. He felt his eyes filling with tears again, yet not out of sorrow, but out of joy and wonder. He had not felt so moved by a piece of music since his father's death. He sat on his bed, gazing rapturously at his mirror, from which the sound seemed to be emanating.

He felt that somehow the song was for him alone, the words of yearning and praise were for him, and he felt his face heating up as the song swelled to a climax, envisioning himself as the object of the voice's passion.

As the song ended, he sat stunned on his bed, his breathing quickened and his heart pounding wildly.

"Child," the voice said softly, "you have such pain in your voice. It masks the beauty that could be. Do not let your sorrows envelop your soul, for it is taking away the passion. It is only with desire that true beauty can be reached. You will now sing for me. Forget your sorrow. Sing as though you are one of the angels in heaven."

Kyle found his mouth opening, seemingly of its own accord, as he rose from the bed, and began to sing. His voice soared up as it had not in years, filling the room with sound, and filling his being with joy. Emotion swelled up in him, overwhelming in its intensity, and the edges of his vision turned a blinding white. The last thing he heard before he collapsed on the floor was a gentle, approving "Bravo, il mio angelo."

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**The translation for the part of the French aria Vision Fugitives is:**

**Fugitive and continuous vision,  
****Mysterious angel, which takes all my life,  
****Ah, it is you that I want to see.  
****Oh, my love! Oh, my hope!  
****Fugitive vision, it is you!**

**It is from the opera Herodiade by Jules Massenet.**

**PS I am sorry about how long it took to update. It was ready four days ago but I was having issues uploading like a lot of people are.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Oh my gosh. To everyone who was waiting, I am so so sorry about the wait, life got nuts. However, I PROMISE that the next chapter will be up within a few days or at most a week, I've got over half of it written already. Also, the plot will start to move forward more instead of the filler, so I won't get as hopelessly stuck, and it should be a bit longer.**

**Thank you thank you to everyone who has reviewed, you guys give me the motivation to keep going.**

Ch. 3

Kyle jerked awake. He was in his bed, and was entirely confused as to how he had arrived there. He remembered hearing the voice singing to him, and remembered his vision going as he started to sing himself. He was sure he had fallen to the floor, though, and not onto his bed. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He must be going slowly insane. Normal people didn't hear disembodied voices singing arias to them. He stood up and walked over to washstand, splashing water on his face.

He glanced across the room to the mirror, sure that the voice he had heard had emanated from it. He walked to it and flattened his palm against the cool surface. The angle of the reflection looked slightly off somehow, bent in the wrong direction. The glass was probably just distorted, but he couldn't help but wonder if there was something else behind the glass. He ran his fingers around the simple frame, searching for irregularities in the shape. He was absorbed in his work until he heard Butters' timid voice at the door.

"Kyle, are you ready to go get breakfast? I was thinking we c-could eat and then go stretch b-before rehearsal starts."

Kyle blinked and turned his gaze to the door.

"Uh, just a moment, Butters." He hastily pulled on his dance uniform and ballet shoes. He was sure his hair was an appalling mess of tangled and frizzy curls, but there was usually little he could do to tame the flaming mass. He raked his fingers through it and pulled what he could back into a ponytail.

He found Butters standing in the hall in his usual stance; his eyes cast down at the floor, and knuckles bumping together. When he saw Kyle, though, his face broke into a smile, and then a look of concern.

"H-how are you this morning, Kyle? You sure do look tired."

"I'm fine, Butters. Just… an emotional night, with choir practice and all."

"Oh, I hope you feel better. You sure did sound like you were singing a lot. It's f-funny though, I though you said you were a tenor, but I could have sworn I heard a baritone voice singing in your room."

Kyle paled at Butter's words. "Uh, you heard that?" he asked. _I'm not insane then_, he thought.

"I sure did, Kyle. It sounded so l-lovely, like an angel. I didn't know your voice was so beautiful!"

"Er, Butters, that- that wasn't exactly me. I-I thought I imagined it, but if you heard it too…" Kyle trailed off, hardly daring to consider what he had so desperately hoped for as a child. It had sounded like an angel… an angel of music. But it couldn't be.

Butters' eyes went wide. "It could have been the ghost!" He whispered excitedly.

Kyle raised an eyebrow at him. "A ghost?"

"Yes, there's a ghost who watches over the opera! He lives in a secret cave and watches every performance! He's an artistic genius, Madame Henrietta says. She says he is the spirit of all the great artists who have performed here in the past. He leaves notes on the performances for the singers and the dancers." Butters' eyes shone earnestly as he spoke about this ghost. It was clear to Kyle that Butters truly believed that the ghost was real.

"Have you ever seen this ghost, Butters?" Kyle asked.

"W-well no, but old Christophe Buquet has. He says the Ghost keeps his face covered so no one can see what he looks like."

Kyle kept walking down the hallway, pondering the possibilities. He felt ridiculous for clinging to the hope that his father had indeed sent down an angel to watch over him, but since Butters seemed so convinced that the voice was supernatural, perhaps it was true. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he failed to see the grotesquely fat man in front of him. He walked straight into the man's bulging stomach and bounced off slightly. Kyle's gaze travelled upwards and he took in the man's piggish eyes and sweating jowls.

"Uh-oh," Kyle heard Butters mutter.

The man raised a threatening finger and jabbed it into Kyle's chest. "You watch where you are walking, you disgusting little redhead. How dare you walk into the magnificent Eric Cartman and just expect to walk away?"

Kyle stared up at the fat man, shocked into silence. A sense of arrogance and self-importance radiated off the man, and it made Kyle want to sink into the floor.

"Well? Move, you anorexic rat!" The fat man lifted his fist and backhanded Kyle across the face, sending the boy sprawling to the side of the hallway at Butters feet. The fat man strode off down the hallway, followed closely by a slender, black-haired woman in a purple dress, and a gaggle of attendees.

Kyle got slowly to his feet, brushing off the dust that was clinging to his tights, trying to blink away the tears that had risen in his eyes from the sudden blow. He felt his shock starting to be replaced with a bubbling anger. He turned to Butters and demanded furiously, "Who the hell was that fat lump?"

Butters looked shocked at the temper that seemed to explode from the usually composed redhead. He bumped his knuckles together and stuttered nervously, "th-that was S-signore Cartman. He is the leading tenor o-of the whole opera company. H-he's a real diva." He looked at Kyle and gulped. "Y-you should probably stay away from him. He hates the dancers, especially us boys. A-and if he knows you sing i-in the chorus too, he'll go out of his way to m-make life hard for you."

Kyle nodded, watching the man's retreating back. So that was the leading tenor. He shook his head, wondering how any sane audience member could look at the man and be convinced that he was a strong, brave warrior like Radames, or an emaciated prisoner like Florestan. Kyle marveled at how easily an audience would overlook the appearance of a singer in favor of a good voice.

Butters and Kyle continued down the hall until they reached the dining area. They hurriedly snatched up pieces of fruit and a few slices of hard sausage before making their way to the table where the other ballerinas were sitting, most of them munching resignedly on celery or carrots.

As Kyle approached, one of the girls smiled broadly and leaned across the table to touch his arm. Her mass of curly blonde hair was escaping from the tight bun that attempted to hold it in place. Kyle recognized her as his dance partner from the previous day's dance rehearsal

"Good morning, Kyle," she beamed, flashing her white teeth at him. "Ooh, did you hear? The opera manager received a note this morning- a note from the opera ghost! It insisted that you be allowed to remain in the chorus for Nabucco! Isn't that exciting?" she cooed.

"Bebe, let the boy eat," another of the dancers said, amusedly. "He will need his strength if he has to spend the whole day lifting you above his head."

Bebe looked offended, and snatched her hand back from Kyle's arm. She uttered an angry retort, but Kyle was lost in thought, trying to process what she had just said. The Opera Ghost? The ghost had mentioned him, specifically? Why? He mind drifted back to the previous night, and he turned the whole situation over and over in his head, trying to determine where the voice had come from , who the voice was, until he felt Butters tug on his arm.

"C'mon, Kyle, we have rehearsal."

Kyle let himself be dragged to the ballet studio, his mind whirling.

As he began to dance, Kyle felt his mind shift from the befuddling questions filling it, to focusing solely on the precise movement of his body as he worked through the choreography. He lost himself in the movement of his arms and legs, enjoying sweat forming on his skin. The soaring music of Verdi's score filled his body, and he let his motions flow in time to the music.

He didn't notice the strange shadow that appeared in the mirror, nor the glint of blue that stared through the glass.


End file.
